Hunter to Human
by Cutxandxrun
Summary: I don't know if the previous summary accurately reflects the story anymore, so I took it down.
1. Robotic

**Let me establish something first. I DO NOT watch the show _Supernatural_ AT ALL. The reason for the creation and writing of this piece has more to do with my pride and a bet/dare/taunt/whatever it is than anything else. Therefore, I apologize in advance for slip ups and the inclusion of things that may or may not actually exist in the show itself; I have done research, if that is any reassurance, on the show after I started writing this so it's not like I intentionally tried to butcher this.**

**Disclaimer: _Supernatural _and its corresponding characters do not belong to me. **

**Oh. And if the writing style changes, it's because another one of my friends is taking pity on me and helping. Still not sure how she got me to agree to that. She's good at making it seem like I'm doing her a favor instead of the other way around.**

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ro·bot·ic

(of a person) mechanical, stiff, or unemotional

Her first real memory is that of a nearly bare room. White walls, charcoal grey carpet. The bed, with its high, plastic rails, was shoved up against the wall farthest away from a black door. There were a total of three toys deposited in a corner. They consist of a small, rubber ball the size of an apple, a cube with different shapes (for developing dexterity, she learns later), and a strange contraption made up of black cloth. It's absolutely still in there, interrupted only except when she cried; even then, no one has ever answered, her cries had simply echoed off the walls. A towering thing made up of strips of metal fed her on a set schedule and attended to her physical needs. It came in when the lights flicked on in the room and left as soon as they went off. The first two or three years of her life is spent without contact. Not with warm flesh and blood anyway.

She was barely four when training officially started. It was the first time she realized that she wasn't the only one in the building. There were others of the same age although they shied away from her and she shied away from them when they first laid eyes on each other. Then there were the black shadows with white masks. Guardians, they called themselves; from the beginning of the training to the end, they would be the ones watching over them. All of them moved the same way; she remembers because the guardians' boots clicked against the marble floor of the corridors in one rhythm, and only one rhythm. The sound was the only warning the trainees got before the lights would go out, leaving them in darkness. Good for learning discipline, the guardians had whispered the first time. Once the session started, the room was completely silent although the cold presence of the guardians never left. She remembers sensing them circling around her and others like her. Their bodies had been swallowed by shadow, she recalls, giving the illusion of several disembodied, leering masks floating around freely, always repeating the same things to the still children trapped with them.

_You were created for one purpose,_ they said. _Your purpose is to hunt. Your job is to live and die as a hunter._

Two years later, when she was six, they introduced her class to the first exercise outdoors. The activity involved a field, and for a couple minutes, the children had been stunned to silence at the new environment. For all the training they go through to desensitize them, it's still not enough. The sun can be mimicked, but only to some extent; they're unprepared to meet its unsettling power to blind and sting. The rest of the components present in the natural world are just as foreign. One child flinches as a soft breeze makes the grass rustle softly. Another stands rigidly, unsure of what to make of the thousands of colors making up the alien world. She frowns when she picks up what at first sounds like the trilling sounds of whistles. Except the trills can't be whistles. They aren't nearly as harsh and they form patterns; for once in her short lifetime, the sound doesn't make her clench her jaw in irritation. They'd only been allowed seconds to adapt to the new landscape before being called back to business, and it was during this time that she'd been distracted by the shimmering blue of small, delicate wings. The creature was bright, living, changing, a far cry from the static gleam of silver and blinding whiteness she'd come from. One of the guardians had noticed her attention wandering and walked over, catching sight of the fluttering creature. A gloved hand had flicked out with inhuman speed, capturing it in one smooth motion and depositing it in her small hands.

_Hold its wings,_ the guardian had commanded; when she hesitated, the voice raised itself, cracking over her like a whip as the command was repeated.

_Hold its wings_.

She swallows, stomach turning in an alien response to something she's never felt before, and manipulates the struggling creature with her clumsy fingers until she feels the paper-thin appendages underneath the pads of her fingertips. Her eyes zero in on the powder rubbing off on her skin before focusing on the veins threading through the wings; she can feel her pupils dilate and constrict, bringing the small detail into amazingly sharp clarity. For a moment, she's mesmerized by the intricacy of the lacy patterns webbing the azure expanse. The building has nothing close to this.

_Good. Now, tear them off._

She stops, staring up at the artificial face hovering above her before glancing down at the fragile form of the creature in her hands. Her eyes flicker between them a couple times before she sets her jaw in childish defiance.

_No._

_No?_

_No._

It is taken away from her the moment the word leaves her mouth. She has enough time to glimpse a helpless flutter of blue before it vanishes behind the gloved hands of the guardian. Then, with the meticulousness of a surgeon, the long fingers begin to dissemble it before her eyes. Her hands twitch in an instinctive motion to stop the action, but she is too young and too slow to do anything; so, she is forced back into position to continue watching the blur of black as the creature is taken apart much the same way she'd seen the guardians take apart a wrecked machine. It's the same cold detachment, the same cool efficiency. When the wings are finally taken, they're viciously torn out with a sickening ripping sound and what's left of the body is crushed in front of her and ground into the dirt underneath a black boot.

_You are made to destroy. _

She can't cry. Not anymore. Somewhere along the way, the constant drilling and pressure to maintain a blank façade had taken away her brain's ability to connect emotion with tears. But her eyes find the small slits interrupting the plastic plane covering the other's face and hold them in a staring contest. Asking why would produce no answers, and by now, they've all learned to shy away from questions. Hunters didn't need to know things beyond what they're going up against, the guardians reiterated again and again as part of the training, there is no need to analyze things too far if their only reason for existing was to rid the Earth of abominations.

_If there is one thing you do not do as a hunter, it's hesitate. If there is one thing you don't ever need, it's emotion. Don't feel. Detach yourself. Those who are crippled by their own minds are completely and utterly useless. Only when killing one creature is the same as destroying another can you even begin to proclaim yourself proficient. Remember that._

The mask turns around and leaves, gliding over the grass with a remarkable grace, to rejoin the other guardians at the front. Her eyes flick back to the destroyed remains of the once lively creature as a container of bright crimson paint is shoved into her hands and a guardian explains their exercise. As she paints the designated sigil on the grass, some of the thick substance spills over onto her fingers, trickling down to her wrists. It looks like blood.

_You are made to destroy._

The pace picks up after that first outing. The class progresses from slicing metal contraptions to one on one battles with supernatural creatures the guardians set free for that purpose. Half of the simulated fights simply depend on speed and accuracy of weapon usage; they're difficult, but accomplishable. The other half are impossible to accomplish without multitasking between sigils and weaponry. The students who pause even the slightest bit during those battles are severely injured and never seen again.

Cold efficiency, they tell them after every incident, is the best weapon any hunter can possess. No questions, no second guesses, just kill what needs to be eradicated and leave.

And little by little, those words embed themselves in her soul and become the standard in how she hunts.

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**An avid fan of this show once commented to me how the love Dean has for Sam makes him relatively useless in situations where his younger brother is in potential danger. I thought that was extremely harsh and I don't know the how much of that was truth and how much was irritation, but that comment is what at least part of this story is based off of.**


	2. Hunter

**Hello and welcome to chapter 2.**

**Disclaimer: _Supernatural _and its corresponding characters do not belong to me.**

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hunt·er:

a person or animal that hunts

Eight or nine years later, she's on her own. For two years, she does her hunting solo, with intermittent regroupings with the others from her class. It's not so much attachment as it is for information; they still can't communicate efficiently enough with humans to glean leads from the normal population. It's a precarious and unstable source though. Their ruthless lifestyles have taken their toll. And she instinctively knows that, soon, this option will vanish. By now, she can count on one hand the amount of survivors from her class. Nearly thirty of their number has disappeared in the span of two years. Training was just training, after all; the real thing isn't something that anyone can actually prepare for. She's found out very quickly that a certain amount of luck and natural talent was essential to emerging from hunts alive. Scars crisscross her body, slightly raised areas of tissue cutting her skin into one big jigsaw puzzle, the results of the hundreds of time she'd felt the reaper's scythe brush against her soul. This is going to be the last meeting before what's left of her class will disperse completely to the winds.

_There's a coven of around ten vampires moving south._

_A town five miles north of here has a dark presence hovering around it, but so far, there have been no disturbances._

_The sigils protecting the safe house in Sioux Falls have been destroyed. No one knows how or why._

It's always been like this. Short, clipped, and to the point. No pleasantries, no greetings, no message of luck or concern. There's no point wasting breath on unnecessary words; none of them care enough to inquire anything farther than information for their work. After just a couple minutes of talking and listening, she leaves. The four others meeting with her do not bring anything new to the table so she sees no point in staying. Although she stores and mentally files their words, none of it holds her interest enough for her to bother caring.

Barely an hour after she leaves her classmates for the last time, she's tracking again. It's not even for a particular target; she reverts to this behavior without thinking. Dark auras are magnified, trails become painfully obvious, abnormal sounds crackle against her ears; she can't ignore them without going insane. They've cultured her to be constantly vigilant, always searching. And they've done a good job; nothing escapes her notice anymore, which is exactly how she runs into this case in the first place. Whatever left the trail, it was probably extremely arrogant. It hadn't even tried to hide its presence. She can feel the darkness oozing out of its host long before her eyes pick out the small form in the half dark of twilight. The host is a child; predictable, really, children were the easiest to trick and take over. She's run across countless cases where the antagonist behind the scenes was tucked inside the body of a kid. It's standing over the slumped form of a woman, presumably the child's mother. She draws the trap first, a design the guardians have all but etched into her brain, before pulling the hood of her jacket up and approaching it. The thing tries to throw her off at first, making small sniffling noises and staring up at her with large puppy dog eyes, crying for her to help the woman. She dumps salt all over it.

_Here is the rule,_ the guardians had said once, _You will live and die by this rule. There is only the hunt and the kill, nothing else._

She's simply following a practical piece of advice.

The pained screaming that follows the salt rouses the female. At first, the woman looks disoriented, then her one good eye widens at her writhing child. Panicked looks flick from the shrieking kid to the hunter and she begs for the child's safety. The plea goes unheeded; fourteen years of training have done their work well, there's not even the smallest tinge of guilt as she hurls an iron knife at it. Of course it dodges, understanding now that its appearance would have no effect on her, and attacks, forgetting about the woman behind it. The thing is still clearly in pain and disoriented because it doesn't go straight to telekinesis. But it makes up for its mistake in a vicious follow up, one that has her slamming onto the ground. She's almost grateful for the physical pain; it's something to focus on other than the mother wailing. It's annoying and as a result, it's difficult to concentrate. And she does need to concentrate if she's going to finish this job as quickly as she intended.

It takes time; telekinesis is not something to be laughed at. She sustains more than a couple bruises, several deep lacerations, and probably some fractured ribs, but she's lured the thing slowly back into the shadowed trap she'd prepared earlier. Her instincts are correct again. It's arrogant; which frankly, makes it stupid. The more intelligent beings would have at least questioned why she wasn't making a huge effort in fighting back, but this one simply follows her retreat, keeping up the offense and grinning happily at the hisses of pain that slip her control. The moment it sets foot into the circle, she twists agilely in the air and lands lightly on her feet, wincing at the sharp pain lancing her ribs. It looks confused at this action, then angry as it tries to get out of the trap. She's ready for this and flicks out a handful of salt with nearly inhuman speed and accuracy. The small form crumples to the ground, thrashing in the circle and screaming; somewhere in the background, she can hear the mother screaming insults and threats furiously at her. Her mind is too preoccupied with exorcising the creature to even process the words. It leaves with a last shriek, leaving the child eerily still.

Following protocol, she tests the slim neck for a pulse and finds none. It looks like whatever had happened during the possession had left the body unable to cope with the consequences. She uses what's left of the salt on the child and is about to burn the body when the woman interrupts, snatching up the child and crying for him to wake up. When he doesn't respond, the woman's attention turns to her and she feels sharp nails rake down her arm, clawing at her jacket with a desperation she usually only attributed to insane cats. Well, she supposes that this hunt went too easily. The fury is making her attacker's eyes dilate and, coupled with the injuries twisting the face, creates an image that should be terrifying. But this is just making her waste more time, and goodness knew she's spent _enough_ time here already. The trap should have been drawn closer to the battlefield. Efficiency was a big part of being a good hunter, and that step of her plan was hardly efficient enough to meet the guardians' standards. The mother's shaking her now, screaming something about how she was going to call the nearest police station and report the murder of her child and goodness, no punishment was too harsh for this killer that doesn't even appear sorry for the despicable act committed. Her response is an exasperated sigh, before she strikes the soft flesh right behind the ear, seeking and finding the pressure point hidden there. The female folds against her, slumping to the ground in a boneless heap and she drags the pliant body a few feet away.

As soon as she's satisfied with the flames, she turns to carve some protective sigils over the woman's head. There's no need for another supernatural occurrence to happen because she was sloppy and left a wide open opportunity for the creature to come back. The guardians have taught them about this too.

_Humans are driven by emotions. It makes them hysterical and incredibly difficult to reason with. You will need to deal with cases involving tears and threats accordingly. Make it as brief as you can and see to it that they don't become another problem that needs to be eradicated._

One hand pushes back the hood shadowing half her face and she leaves the clearing, senses already reverting to their previous job of tracking.

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**Reviews? Advice? Goodness knows that latter would be appreciated although the former would be nice as well. :)**


	3. Partner

**So...er...sorry for the wait? I can only write when my muse hits me over the head with a frying pan; otherwise, it all ends up as crap. Not saying this doesn't contain some crappy parts because...you know, _Dean_ and all his glory is hard to grasp (...I don't know what went through your mind, but that isn't what I meant). Not to mention, I haven't watched the show and trying to understand all that angsting and what not is really hard.**

**In simpler terms, I tried my best and I is sorry in advance.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own _Supernatural_ or its corresponding characters.**

**Enjoy.**

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part·ner

a person who takes part in an undertaking with another or others

There are no such things as second chances. No mistakes are allowed. The first time the guardians had told them this was after an accident and they'd been left with the tortured remains of a classmate. The second time, the transgressor had been possessed and the guardians had killed him themselves. Those words were branded into her brain, a warning against carelessness. She should have paid closer heed to them.

She'd severely miscalculated the numbers and strength of the pack, sustaining injuries that drained her ability to focus. Although she'd managed to kill most of them, the two remaining werewolves had cornered her. They managed to further tear up her upper right arm and shoulder before throwing her against the crumbling wall. The ripped flesh spanning her chest gives a throbbing jab of pain and she coughs, feeling her throat clench at the sensation. There's a rush of air as they lunge again, claws barely missing her neck as she twists to the side, slipping past them and back into the first room where her back slams against the far wall. She can't keep this up for much longer; blood is making her torn clothing stick to her skin and her legs are beginning to go numb. At this point, the wall is really the only thing holding her upright. The werewolves are circling again, regrouping for their last attack. This time, she knows they'll get her. Well, she supposes her luck had to run out sometime; the guardians did tell them that their present normal life expectancy didn't extend past twenty.

Her fingers brush against something soft. A dead werewolf, one she'd killed previously, is slumped against the wall next to her. And there's a silver stake buried in its flesh. Adrenalin crackles in her veins and her fingers scramble to find purchase on the blood slickened metal. She yanks. Hard. There's a satisfying squelch as the stake slides free and she turns just in time to sink the sharp point deep into the chest of the first werewolf. This is her last kill; her legs give under the extra weight and she slides to the floor. Warm, crimson liquid coats her arms from fingertip to elbow as the dead creature's head lolls to rest on her shoulder. Her body doesn't scream in pain anymore and she should probably be worried, but the only sense she has is the vague feeling of self reproach. Loose ends are terrible; she should have at least been able to rectify her stupidity by finishing the kill. The guardians would be disappointed. A warm trickle slips along the curve of her jaw and she looks up to stare at the second werewolf. Black dots are swallowing her vision as the blurry image of the remaining creature's claws came crashing down. Except they never make it to her. She's conscious enough to recognize the sound of a gunshot before she slips over the edge and her vision fades to nothing.

An acrid smell makes her open her eyes. For a few disorienting moments, her brain scrambles to piece what happened into a coherent picture. Light is coming in from a window, rough sheets cradle her body and her clothes aren't torn or bloody. In fact, she's pretty sure they aren't her clothes. Memories click just as the scenery sharpens into focus and she shoots up into a sitting position on the bed. Immediately, her body scolds her for the movement; dizziness slams into her like a wave and she tips backwards to lie on the bed again. When the room stopped spinning her jumbled senses picked up on the second presence lingering quietly against the wall farthest away from her. She sits up again, this time bracing an arm on the bed to keep herself steady. It's a man, she notes, a rather tall man. Well built too. His right hand is curled around what looks like a Colt. The stranger's face is cautious, but the gun is lowered to his side so she knows he isn't planning on killing her yet. They stare at each other for another few moments before he breaks the tense quiet.

_You okay?_

Of all the questions he could have asked, he chose that one? She'll never understand the reason behind asking obvious questions. Her wounds have been stitched and bandaged and, providing her assumptions are correct, he's probably the one that treated her. He should know better than her whether or not she's okay having actually assessed the injuries. Briefly she considers the possibility that the stranger might be hiding ill intentions under the guise of talking, but dismisses the idea almost immediately. She's not dead, for one and he hasn't moved at all from his wary stance from the wall. His presence is clean as well. Human. But it still isn't wise to stay here. Blind trust was equivalent to suicide, after all. Although death doesn't bother her, maximizing her life is preferable. It'll give her more time to kill the things walking amongst the living that weren't supposed to be there. She should leave now. As if sensing where her thoughts are going, the man narrows his eyes.

_You'll tear the stitches if you push yourself too much and I am not going to watch an hour of my time go to waste,_ he pauses, green eyes scrutinizing her face, _Where are your parents? Why are you hunting alone?_

She frowns at the question, tilting her head to one side as she considers the enigma standing in front of her. According to the guardians, she doesn't have a mother or a father; the subject itself wasn't important either so it had only been briefly brought up once. And she's always done her hunting alone, save for the couple instances where she'd known it would be suicide without a companion. So, she settles for staring at him blankly, wondering to herself if all humans were incapable of asking for actual information. This one sided conversation has done nothing but reinforce the guardians' comments that normal humans made terrible hunters.

_They aren't dead, are they?_ These words are...different. Softer. The air that carries them to her ears presses against her skin. She thinks the question is supposed to hold immense weight of some kind, but she sees nothing special about it. Creatures died all the time.

_I suppose they are. Hunters die earlier than most.  
_

The air crackles at her flat answer and she catches a flash of green fire in the man's eyes. Instinct has her muscles tense and senses on alert even as the moment passes to simmer back into calm.

_Do you not care?_

_Should I? They weren't of importance._

There's shock in his entire posture. _So you don't even know who they are._ She cocks her head in assent and swings her legs over the side of the bed. The dizziness has abated and not even the disgusting stink of the run down motel can mask the cloyingly sweet odor blown in through the open window. The room is hindering her abilities, but she recognizes the scent as a trail. One she's compelled to follow.

_Hey, you're in no condition to do anything. You've been unconscious for the past two days. You need to eat or something first, don't you?_

She doesn't grace that question with an answer. In fact, she should have made to leave the moment the room stopped spinning. All of the previous words exchanged fell under useless conversation, one that used time and yielded nothing in return. Long fingers encircle her wrist, preventing her from reaching the door. Instinct acts before anything else; it's fortunate that he has supreme reflexes because the result would have been a broken nose otherwise. As it is, her hand only lightly grazes the side of his jaw. Emerald orbs glare at her reproachfully as she flicks her trapped arm, breaking his hold easily and continues on her path to the entrance without any acknowledgement of the incident.

_I'm hunting with you then._

That makes her pause. She's inclined to refuse at first; there's a reason the guardians have told them to hunt alone unless a partner was absolutely necessary. Fewer mistakes happen when one person carries out one plan simply because miscommunications are eliminated entirely. But then he points out that he has a car, an arsenal of weapons, and information. And he knows how humans work. In this case, the benefits outweigh the hindrances; she can take advantage of the tools he's readily offered to her. Besides, by the cold, hard glint in his eyes, she'll probably end up fighting him every step of the way and end up using even more time than if she just agreed to this arrangement. In the end, there's nothing tying them together; once whatever good outcomes this partnership provided is exhausted, she'll just let it dissolve. So, she nods and watches as he slings his bag onto his shoulder. They're outside the building when he asks another question.

_What's your name?_

She stares blankly at the question. _Name?_

The hunter frowns. _Yes. Name._ His eyes become pensive, _You have a name, don't you?_

She blinks and he frowns, _Let's try this. People call me Dean. That's my name. What do people call you?_

Strange, he sounds concerned over the fact she might not have a name. She tilts her head at this; interesting, in all her years of training, the guardians had never mentioned names. Therefore, she'd always assumed that this concept wasn't important in the least to her job. The hunter is asking for it, though, and assuming that her intuition on his abilities is correct, there had to be a reason he so keen on getting a name from her. Maybe it has to do with fact that they're technically working together now. The soft sounds of rubber against asphalt stops and she looks up to see that her companion had spun around and was now staring at her expectantly. He's getting impatient, she realizes, she'll end up having more inquiries directed at her if she doesn't answer soon. Her mind flicks through memories, scanning through the countless titles she'd heard when one human addressed another; she hears him shift his weight and looks up to see that his frown has deepened.

_Angela, _she chooses quickly, liking the feel of the smooth roll of syllables, _I am Angela._

_Angela._ He turns it over in his mouth, nose wrinkling slightly. The word seems to have dragged up memories he had no wish of revisiting.

_You don't like it,_ she observes, _That's_ _fine. Call me whatever you want, I don't care_.

His mouth compresses into a tight line, but he doesn't pursue the subject. She wonders if this was what normal humans called "considerate". Or maybe he simply doesn't wish to continue talk. Trying to read into the behaviors of humans gives her a headache and she gives up in favor of the trail she'd picked up. It's taken on a distinctive smell now that she's outside. Floral almost, like roses growing over a heap of rotting garbage, undercut with the coldness indicative of a supernatural creature. The scent's familiar, one that she's run across countless times already and her eyes automatically sweep her surroundings, looking for the tell tale wisps all supernatural beings left behind before she screws them shut. Her new companion wouldn't appreciate her leaving to track and she doesn't want to end up in another argument. But it's difficult _not _to focus on the trail and by the time the leather clad back in front of her came to a stop, she's already counted half of the fraying stitches holding the fabric together. She's focused so thoroughly on not focusing that her nose actually makes contact with the worn leather before she blinks the world back into focus. And stares. Considering the fact that he is a hunter, the pristine condition of the black Impala makes her gape. This man is either a really good mechanic or this is a 'borrowed' car; by the way he's running his hands over the exterior of the car though, the former is more likely. She slides into the backseat, running light fingertips over the cool leather as he starts the engine.

_I've got some rules. Driver chooses the music. Shotgun shuts his cakehole. And above all else, be nice to my baby_

There's a warning note laced into the words and she looks up to see his eyes watching her movements carefully but she chooses to ignore him for the time being. Now that she's fully situated in the car, the jumbled smell coming from it is clouding her senses. It stinks of old blood, sweat, and sex. Intertwined with those is a scorching odor reminiscent of fire; overlaying that is a more recent scent that has her tongue tingling with the taste of ozone. And that was just the one portion of the complex mess. She sneezes two minutes into the drive and opens a window. The twisting musk is clouding her senses and she frowns. She's used to the clarity of open air, unhindered by the foggy wisps of sentimentality and history. With all the clutter, the trail rippling out in front of her blurs and vanishes; it sets her on edge, being so blind, but at the same time, she's grateful. The dull ache throbbing against her chest disappears when her tracking senses are neutralized. He's rambling about something in the background and she ignores it in favor of tilting her head back against the smooth leather and closing her eyes.

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**Reviews? Advice (_please? Especially _from those who understand Dean as a character and can explain how to write him because I can't do it)?**

**Both are appreciated :D.**


	4. Companion

**Sorry for the wait. **

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com·pan·ion

a person or animal with whom one spends a lot of time or with whom one travels.

Dean's a man of many quirks. Too many quirks. If it weren't for the fact that they've covered more ground and gathered more information in a couple days than she could in a week, she would have terminated the partnership already. She figures out within the first four hours that he likes to hover. The first few days, she makes an allowance for the behavior; even the guardians gave them time to recuperate after strenuous hunts. And she's observed pack animals taking care of an injured companion; so, she assumes that it's only normal for humans to hover a little bit over their sick. But after a week, it starts to get ridiculous. It makes her wonder how normal children ever learned to walk on their own. Certainly, if this Dean were to ever raise a child, it would end up as one of the most helpless things on the entire planet. He probably wouldn't even let it learn to walk on its own if he thought it would be dangerous. The issue is settled quickly though because she tends to ignore his commands to be careful.

_You lost enough blood to be out cold for two days. I'm not letting your mulish stupidity kill you._

She looks down at him from between the branches of the tree she'd scaled for a better view.

_I'll judge when I'm ready._ She has her body's limits down to a science now. He doesn't need to coddle her.

_You're not-_

_You're worse than the little old lady I met in Boise._

That stops him short. He spends the rest of the night in icy silence while she flexes her muscles experimentally, carefully stretching them, and continues her ascent upwards. The next morning, he insists on seeing her injuries himself and she can see by the rigid set of his shoulders that he's not going to back down. So, she disrobes in record time then stares in confusion as his face goes through three different shades of red.

_Angela! Put your clothes back on!_

_You asked to see the injuries,_ she gestures at the raised, pink tissue streaking across her chest just before he yanks the shirt back over her head with his eyes focusing anywhere but at her.

_I know!_ His breathing is elevated, _But normal people don't just strip in front of others and-_

She frowns as she readjusts her pants and shrugs her jacket on, _Are you telling me normal people can see through clothing? _

_What? No!_ For just a moment, the atmosphere shifts and she becomes aware of an aching sensation clinging to him, but then he's turning around and she brushes it off.

_It's 8:05 already. If you didn't want to see the injuries you shouldn't have asked to. You've just made us late._ This is why she doesn't understand humans; they're indecisive all the time. He groans.

_Whoever raised you certainly didn't do a great job._ He spends the next couple hours in the car explaining human etiquette to her.

He's also perpetually obsessed with fast food and it only takes her half a meal to find out that she can't tolerate that level of grease. How Dean is able to eat and enjoy it so thoroughly is beyond her understanding and capabilities. The first time they have a proper burger, it threatens to come back up before she gets halfway through it. Dean looks scandalized when he sees her push the half eaten plate away in favor of the small packet of carrots and complimentary salad.

_What were you raised on? Rabbit food?_

His eyes darken the slightest near the end of the comment as his voice tapers off, but she ignores the change in favor of swallowing her nausea between gulps of water and mouthfuls of vegetables. Dessert looks suspicious as well, being little more than a jumbled mess of sticky sugar and flaky crust, but since Dean's confiscated what's left of her impromptu meal and she can't get it back without breaking something, the pie will have to take priority. The gooiness of the dessert is a foreign texture to her, but she swallows it.

_You have got to like pie at least. It's the greatest food known to mankind._

Strange is more accurate, but since her stomach hasn't rebelled yet she takes up another spoonful of the haphazard, golden triangle on her plate. Surprisingly, pie wasn't bad; although nearly unbearably sweet, there was a certain blending of flavors in the dessert that left her palate tingling pleasantly. The moment she's certain that it wouldn't decide to make an untimely reappearance, the sweet vanishes quickly. She looks up to see his mouth twitch in attempt to hold back a smile.

_You like it._

She figures out he drinks by accident. It's after another one of his mysterious outings where he'd disappear for days on end without a trace. During that time, the supernatural were unnaturally quiet and she'd found nothing to do. But the time he'd come back with bags under his eyes, reeking of caffeine and serotonin, she was a ball of feral energy and aching for a rush. So, she'd purposely pushed every button she knew of on the man. Dean attacks her without any warning; she feels the shift in the air moments before he knocks over a table and very nearly slams her into the wall. Amusement trails sparks up her nerves as her body kicks adrenalin into her blood and she jerks her knee up, relishing in the hiss of surprised pain before slamming both hands on his left hip. He's stronger physically than she is, so she'll have to be careful of cornering herself.

They'd completely trashed the room when his knife (when did weapons get involved anyway? She doesn't remember, but then again, she doesn't care) slips her guard and draws a thin line of blood across her cheek. He freezes at the surprised sound she emits, and she watches his eyes zero on her and widen until there's an edge of white framing the green of his irises. He scrambles away as she brushes a finger across the cut, smearing the sticky liquid, and makes a face at the metallic, salty scent that hits her.

_Angela? Oh my god, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Are you okay?_

_It's fine._

_No it's not._ His eyes are nearly black and he slumps, _I hurt everything._ She watches as he pulls a bottle out from his duffle bag and pops the cap. The liquid sloshing around inside the container disappears down his throat in a few swallows. He breathes, pinches the bridge of his nose, then reaches back into the bag. She hears the clink of another bottle being opened as she settles on the other bed and yanks the covers free. He's on his fourth drink when she slips into a light sleep.

The next morning, the restroom has a new stink of vomit.

He apparently also possesses a relentless drive to copulate. She already knows he's by no means a virgin because the backseat of the Impala still holds traces of the scent of intercourse. That, and she walks in on him once. Since the beginning, when he walked out of the hotel room, she was bound to vanish as well. Although she'd learned to partially ignore the scents and silver white trails left behind by the supernatural, one month and five days is not enough to undo a decade. And, well, tracking really isn't a choice; the guardians had made that clear enough. Even when she's with Dean, she's constantly keeping track of new scents. The only time she doesn't do so is when their in the Impala. Because of this instinct though, she usually ended up following the faint, silver white trails back to their owners and killing them. Dean had a field day the first time she didn't come back for an entire night. She carries a cell phone now as a result.

They're in Las Vegas when she decides to follow Dean for the first time; the city is teeming with creatures and she doesn't need to go on a killing spree in one of the most prolific areas of the United States. The Impala isn't hard to track. Its owner spent so much time with it, the bitter scent of gasoline was laced permanently with the man's essence. She follows it straight to one of the flashiest buildings she'd ever seen, getting sprayed with mud and cheap beer in the process, and then it turns around and leads right back to the motel. Well, she does need a shower now. The moment she opens the door, she gets an eyeful. The woman shrieks, yanking at the nearest piece of fabric to cover herself up. Dean swears colorfully and jerks away, pulling his jeans up in one, practiced motion.

_What are you doing here?_

That question was more or less useless, so she ignores it in favor of walking into the room and pulling out a new set of clothes, shedding her reeking jacket in the process. The woman mumbles something as she does this, eyes flickering. Dean just looks confused as she calmly gathers her things and heads towards the small bathroom. She blinks at their frozen postures.

_Please do continue in your sexual endeavors. Copulation is normal in all populations. It's a base instinct of survival, after all._

The bathroom door closes before she sees their reactions, but she does hear Dean swearing again and the silent muttering of a more feminine voice. When she walks back out after her shower, the mysterious lady is gone and her companion is sitting at the rickety wooden table nursing a bottle labeled "Jack Daniel's". When he sees her, the bottle comes down with a clunk.

_Angela, I need to sit you down to a lesson regarding acceptable behavior regarding circumstances similar to the one you just walked in on._


End file.
